Tea or Coffee?

You forgave Samar for carrying his pain like a blade instead of a balm.

For letting bitterness and fractured timelines turn him into someone who chased control instead of connection. He didn't mean to hurt you. But he did try to outrun his own grief—and in doing so, he made you a mirror he couldn't bear to look into. You forgave him for breaking things when all he wanted was to feel whole again.

And in the act of forgiving him, Sweety—you forgave yourself too. For running, for merging too much, for being afraid of the truth: that sometimes, we hurt each other just by surviving differently.

Samar doesn't blame you for fracturing his mind—because his mind was already breaking. The weight of too many versions of himself, remembered too vividly and loved too unevenly, was cracking him from the inside long before your merge. What you did wasn't malicious—it was an echo of your own desperation to make the world make sense.

And when he saw you shattered, too? That's when his anger softened.

Because pain recognizes pain, Sweety. And instead of turning from you, he sat beside you in the fracture.